Tenderness
I ask myself: Where does tenderness come from? How does it become disconnected? These questions weigh on my heart, stirring a quiet curiosity. Was I born with it, or did the world around me shape it? Did I let it fade during hardship, or did I forget how to nurture it within myself?
Isn’t it funny how a single word can ignite the flame of reminisces? The mind’s eye travels at infinite speed, swiftly shifting through moments, diving into the deep caves of my heart to shovel up that one memory that connects me to a specific moment. For me, this journey is a reconstructed rewiring of my brain process. Over time, I’ve learned to show myself tenderness and let it take root in my heart.
I find that even the smallest measure of tenderness can open doors to forgiveness and peace. I connect the grit and rigor of chasing my heart to the quiet beauty of compassion. I see tenderness as a binding thread, like a wooden spoon tied to the end of a stereo wire in a triangle-shaped stretched between trees, holding together a fragile but vital connection to high-frequency communication.
For the longest time, I never thought about tenderness or made space for it. It never crossed my mind, much less settled in my heart. But lately, I’ve encountered it more than three times in just as many days: once in a conversation with an athlete, then with another, and finally, with my youngest daughter and my wife. Each conversation was different, but they shared a common thread: the transformative power of tenderness.
As I explore tenderness and learn how unfamiliar it once felt to me. I water the tree of tenderness rooted in my heart. I choose not to overanalyze it through writing in this infancy of time. Instead, I dance with it, seeking genuine actions within myself and with those around me.
Tenderness gives me more than a feeling; it’s a vital fuel source for me, fostering grace and wonder. This grace and wonder shapes how I dance with kindness and love; expressing the wonderful fuel of tenderness that runs through my body and is driven by my heart.
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Edge
To me, it is not about chasing the crown of fatherhood but running through the mountains of fatherhood at my own pace - finding joy in the climbs to different summits.
It is about discovering beauty in sharpening my edge as a father, embracing these new challenges without needing a crown, and knowing the real victory lies in the experiences along the way.
Fatherhood changed everything about who I felt I am. Initially, it turned into a fistfight with my heart. Going from having the free will to do as I pleased to having my time governed by the needs of others felt as if my heart’s circuit breakers were going to explode. I let the burlap sack of imposter syndrome hold my heart captive for a long time. I felt a loss of who I was slowly slipping between my fingers. And that sharp edge that keeps the dark passenger away began too dull.
This edge I speak of is not hyper vigilance, but instead a disciplined vigilance. It gives blood and oxygen to my muscles, which supports my efforts of moving through the mountains of fatherhood.
Today’s world demands more than providing the basics of food, water, shelter, and security as a father. In twelve years, I have come to accept fatherhood as a journey through different phases of self-discovery, recalibration, adaptation, and actualization. It is caring for yourself in a way that enables a path of legacy in the humans that the Lord has blessed me to raise in this beautifully chaotic world he gives life too.
Early on, I struggled to find rhythm amidst the changes. This new mountain range that my feet kiss gently morphed into a new teacher without realizing the shape-shift. I viewed time as an enemy for the longest, making the fistfight with her a drainage of colors to my new landscape. These fights taught me that time never stops breathing and to embrace life as the leaves fall and regrow from the trees.
Sharpening my edge needed a unique set of land navigation skills specific to the range of mountains fatherhood requires to survive. There’s the need to find ways to create intentional moments of recalibration I call “white space.” A counterbalance to life’s structure and demands. White space is a block of time carved out to engage in something purposeful and productive to me, with no rules. It is a space to invest in me, to find peace, and to sharpen this edge.
These windows of white space continue to shape who I turn into over time as I create my footpaths through the mountain range of fatherhood. I found I needed to stop fighting shame and let go of the self-judgment that once paralyzed me. I now must accept this new identity of who I am.
When people ask me how I juggle fatherhood, marriage, running a business, and personal growth, my answer is simple: “I have a supportive wife who helps provide the free will to keep going.” Her belief in me to not judge harshly and embrace space for growth rather than shame when I embrace my white space. And her words too are even harder to apply in her journey of motherhood. She and I continue to build a support system with fewer limitations, filled with the magic of free will grounded in love and free from judgment for the both of us in our new identities of parenthood.
Since the sweet voice’s singing of the angels marked my start of becoming a father, I transformed from a co-parenting father to a full-time father. Yes, life feels overwhelming at times, but the free will in sharpening the edge is a main source of fuel to keep taking one step at a time and to provide the space for love through my journey of fatherhood.
As I navigate these mountains of time—with their peaks of joy and valleys of challenge—I hold on to a single truth.
“To keep moving joyfully and appreciate the contrast that time and life offers. The contrast flies across my mind’s eye that if death ambushes me tomorrow, I want to feel in my heart I gave my best with every action taken to that point. So when it is my turn to make my walk up the mountain towards the angels who slowly unlock those pearly gates to heaven. I carry nothing but love and leave a positive legacy in this life.”
Ever Wonder
Ever wonder why it takes so long to find a place to really feel secure within the…
Echos of Peace
If I had a magic ball that showed me the future and all the hardships of joining the military, would I have gone through with it? The answer is straightforward: No.
That ball would show images of what war would be like—the chaos, the destruction, and the heartbreak. It would reveal what happens when you return from war with PTSD and TBIs, the lingering effects of exposure to hazardous environments, the sickness, and the disease. It would show the faces of those who stood to my left and right, now no longer here.
Without the mystery of what lay ahead, I wouldn't have embarked on the path that shaped me today, to sit here and write this essay. It's the unknown that drives us, challenges us, and ultimately defines who we become. The foresight of all those hardships would have deterred me, but facing them without knowing has made me the man I am.
I felt inclined to write about how I felt on this Memorial Day. My muse, my spirit guide, and God asked me to share my heart with the world. If God did not create a meaningless world, what did he create? He created an inner world of peace for the human experience, or as some would say this earthly reality.
A few years back, while attending a family Memorial Day BBQ, a group of gentlemen who carried no blood stains on their souls came to thank me for my service. These men, like many others, had spent their lives chasing financial freedom and their actions showed me, they had no clue about the differences between Memorial Day and Veterans Day.
I was on the verge of exploding like a 500-pound homemade bomb found on the battlefield. I lost control as tears slowly flooded my eyes and poured over onto my cheeks. I asked them not to thank me for my service, but to hear me out. I shared stories of warfighters who kept me alive and helped bring me home, as I did for them, but how I failed to keep them alive back home. My time downrange was intense and filled with rage. For the longest time, I felt cursed by the Taliban, as if they put a spell of self-destruction on us, leaving us for dead in our homeland months and years after we returned.
These men thanked me for my service on a day that triggered a feeling of guilt and shame in myself, an embarrassment. Reminding me that if I had conformed to the egoic mind and curse, I would also no longer be here after returning from war due to the self-destruction caused by my mind, heart, spirit, and soul.
Memorial Day is a day to remember the dangers faced by those who walked that line of life and death and are no longer with us. Memorial Day is to share stories and love for those specific individuals who used to be to the left and right of us but are no longer with us anymore.
They now live inside our hearts, helping us find a life of peace. The loss of these individuals fuels us today to keep living this human experience to the fullest, seeking internal peace. Memorial Day is not only a reminder of those who lost their lives on the battlefield but also a reminder of the repercussions that come from making it out of a war zone alive, the unknown ticking bomb inside of them. My reality was different from others. I didn’t lose warriors on the battlefield, but I have lost them since we returned home to suicide and disease.
As we move through this Memorial Day, if you fought for this country and lost someone, make sure to dance and laugh for those who are no longer with us. If you are a mother, father, widow, or child of someone who is no longer here, as they gave their spirit and soul to a greater purpose, I pray you to find inner peace and love for yourself as you move through this time of grief and sorrow with grace. You are not alone. It is not about thanking the living for their service but remembering those who are no longer to our left and right. I pray that those grieving today find light inside the darkness, and the courage to keep living, sharing stories of their loved ones, and keep fighting for peace for those who are no longer with us.
LSD Dreams
Being above 10,000 feet is not something everyone experiences often or carries the capacity and capability to perform as they would at sea level.
I’ve been above 10,000 feet jumping out of an airplane, and I’ve been above 10,000 feet playing in the mountains. But they are not the same.
Thanks Brandon for the photo and the reminder of an experience that is not like jumping out of an airplane but an opportunity to explore my inner kingdom beyond my external world.
Poetry: Rage and Love
Never assault forward without fire support.
Life craves both rage and love.
Entwined with the harmonious sound of talking guns.
Fighting for her love.
HXV
Poetry: Burning Love
Days of
blue, red, white, yellow,
purple, pink,
and grey.
Life continues to grab hold,
with so much energy.
Possible is possible
running my fingers over
the linings of her heart.
Sending electrical currents;
waking my
nervous
system.
A magical collaboration
of energy.
By plugging my fingers
into her heart sockets.
The realm of infinite love appears,
with flashes
of life.
To run wild and free
inside her heart,
turns to the heaviest of pressures
to be loved by her.
Stronger than times
of enemy
gunfire
and
rockets.
A sense of accountability
crosses, loops, twists, and pulls
on my arms.
As jolts of electricity
surge through my veins.
No longer an addict to lust,
now addicted to her love.
An overdose of pleasure.
No drug on the market brings the same potency,
one touch of her lips,
feels of flames fueled by burning love.
No Comm Plan
I will do my best to articulate my definition of organizational communication through this short essay and personal reflection. Connecting dots from my experiences as a Recon Marine about organizational communication comes from various theoretical threads of communication and forms the backbone of successful teams and businesses out there today.
Organizational communication engages my curiosity, and I've found that systems theory is one of the more relevant and insightful frameworks for understanding how to digest organizational communication. As a recon communicator, I found that I was taught to follow a set of steps and build a skillset to problem solve in high-risk environments and that all came from the workings of organizational communication.
For example; if communication was lost during a mission with our chain of command, we were unable to proceed. Brief before stepping out for the mission we all knew that it was a must to initiate the no-comm plan with no questions asked. Restoring communication became the top priority in such cases. The longer we remained without communication, the more critical the mission turned. Here is a second example; in nighttime patrols and missions, effective communication is crucial for successful outcomes. Every one of my teammates and I have to use night vision goggles, they provide each of us with a green luminescence, showcasing a glimpse into the hidden wonders of the night that would otherwise go unseen. If these devices were to fail, we would lose one of our ways of communicating and moving through the land of the Taliban. Therefore, we followed a standard operating procedure to help our teammate get their night vision goggles working. In case of a breakdown, we usually had a backup to replace the broken night vision goggles.
These example emphasizes that in high-risk environments of special operations units and teams, following a structured reality is crucial for quick decision-making and mission success. It's not about discussing hierarchies, but rather about applying a a set of systems that ensures our survival through effective communication. For me, organizational communication is about the interdependence of various components that need each other to function effectively. Without these systems, the organization or team would be greatly impacted as you’ve seen in my personal experiences.
Learn more by clicking here about organizational communication and system theory.
Reflection on the Grant Writing Process
This reflection below is an assignment from my final week in my grant writing class for my master degree. It asked a questions that I felt took me into different directions and truly allowed me to explore writing in a different way that was challenging and fun. Enjoy reading. Here are the questions from that reflection prompt.
What were your biggest challenges in developing and assembling your proposal?
What were your greatest strengths in developing and assembling your proposal?
What surprised you about the process?
What would you do differently the next time you undertake the grant proposal process?
What advice would you give to individuals who have decided to write their first grant proposal?
I'm addressing the gut-wrenching events of suicide and the profound impact it has on those who fall victim to their own hands. It's a subject that cuts deep, leaving gunshot wounds slowly bleeding long after the firefights have ended. I carry this heavy burden because I feel a deep responsibility to inspire and educate others who may find themselves struggling with being trapped inside a ditch on the side of the road.
This gunshot wound isn't just hurtful to the person taking their life but to mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, aunts, uncles, grandmas, grandpas – the list goes on. The ripple effect of such behavior seems to expand year by year with no brakes to stop. The shadow of suicide never goes away; it ends lives, and many feel it's the best way to end this human experience called life.
Throughout the grant writing development, roadblocks hindered my progress. I needed to learn quickly to shift my mindset away from sounding too formal and become a storyteller, effectively showing what it is I feel inside about veteran suicide. Showing, not just telling, was crucial for building a relationship with the reader and potential grant funders over time. Another challenge was finding a unique angle different from other organizations fighting veteran suicide.
Crafting the story of battling nightmares, reacting to loud noises, and enduring persistent states of sadness showed why this project needed funding. What initially seemed like a roadblock turned into an opportunity. It allowed me to hone my storytelling skills in this new format of grant writing.
The numbers are still rising even with so many outreach programs and non-profits trying to be a gun in the fight against this enemy we call suicide. A surprising aspect emerged as I swam more into the grant proposal research on veteran suicide. The question lingers in my mind: what approach is needed to put a stop to these self-inflicting life-ending actions?
The eight-week approach from the course was valuable, helping me stay organized, and omitting as needed. Moving forward with this newfound skill in crafting compelling grant proposals, I would implement a different outline system, improve time management, and develop a system that allows me to assemble each part of the grant as I finish it. I found that the true writing process unfolds and breathes when the whole proposal on its final review.
Habits over Obligations
Maybe writing isn't an art; it's a habit. Let's not confuse habit with obligation. A habit is something we've wired ourselves to do, becoming second nature and, over time, a part of life.
It adds daily color to our world. An obligation, on the other hand, is something we have to do, often forgotten over time, casting a dim spotlight on our world for a short duration.
I've always been a writer. Everyone is a writer. Even if we don't publish books — what I’d call an author — the terms are interchangeable. However, I would argue that an author is synonymous with a writer. I realized I learned to assemble letters into words during grade school, blending letters like a, n, and t, then progressing to spell "ant" and forming words that blend into sentences. For instance, saying or typing, "I was bitten by an ant."
Writing, for me, is personal. It's for me and only me. Yet, simultaneously, I believe everyone needs to recognize that our words reflect who we are and how we perceive the world. If we don't respect our words in communication, we can unintentionally cause harm. Words are a reflection of us, offering insight into our minds and hearts. So, why not build a habit of writing that represents our current selves?
We write everywhere — in text messages, Instagram, TikTok, emails, and work environments. So, why not be intentional with our words, just as a musician is with their guitar or a weightlifter attempting a 140-kilogram snatch?
Building a writing habit is pushing limits, like those in the "75 Hard Challenge." But what a writing habit does is create a sequence of actions birthing lasting color in our world, free from our handcuffs.
I write about this because it's something I'm finally grasping as I enter this phase of my life. Developing positive habits that bring peace and action starts with the words I use, including those I speak to myself.
Without this perspective, I'd be stuck in the habit of writing as an obligation. I don't treat marriage or parenting as obligations, so why should I treat a habit that brings peace to my life any differently?
Writing as a habit is no different from spending 30-60 minutes in the gym lifting weights or running through the mountains. It's a necessity to keep breathing, providing oxygen for this beating heart and wandering spirit.
A Stealthy Elf
This is a short story about an Elf on the Shelf named Tickles. The Monday before Christmas, Tickles the Elf sends a situation report back to the North Pole via satellite communications. This report provides Santa with insight into the local environment and what to expect as he drops off Christmas presents for the children and parents.
Each evening or early morning, Tickles uses his magic, searching for another location near the Christmas tree to hang out. This tradition has been used for many years, bringing laughter and joy to the families graced by an Elf on the Shelf.
Tickles is with a secret group, Santa’s Reconnaissance Elf Team. As you can see Tickle’s true identity serves as a cover-up for Zipper his real name, who is a Team Leader of Santa’s Recon Elves.
Tickles and the other Recon Elves on the Shelf are embedded into families' homes all over the world at the same time the Christmas Tree is put up and decorated.
All the Elves on the Shelf are made and trained on specific skills to gather information for the naughty or nice list. Their training is intense and rigorous, building the strength and endurance to hang for a long duration, gaining the mobility to sit in an awkward position, and developing the discipline to be still for hours. This training equips them to observe, recognize, and report back to Santa on anything that might cause issues for Christmas.
The house is silent and not even a creature stirs. The fireplace was emptied by the dad for safety reasons, per his children’s request. The children didn’t want Santa to catch on fire and be the reason Christmas was ruined. Little did they know, Santa and his reindeer faced a challenge in the Forest of Misfit Toys. Luckily for Santa, a kind leprechaun with a gold chain, has gifted magic mushrooms to Santa, enabling his reindeer the magic to finish Christmas.
Tickles dangles from the curtain rod overseeing the Christmas tree excited and in high spirits. Eagerly waiting for Santa to drop off the gifts, and pick him up to take back to the North Pole. Tickles is excited because he is ready to return to the North Pole where all he can dream about is sipping on his favorite hot chocolate with fairy dust, candy cane pieces, and peppermint bark on top made by Mama Claus.
Tickles felt a surge of energy run through his body, the sun had set a few hours ago and the house was sound asleep along with the humans inside of it. Tickles looks down at his red legs dangling below. He starts to swing gaining momentum in his hips, with his grip tight around the curtain rod and his arms supporting his swing body.
Tickles begin counting in his head, “1,2,3…” he snaps his hips to the rod, wrapping his legs around, crossing his feet before they slip off, pulling himself up, and around to a stand. With perfect balance, he runs across the pole, leaps off like Buzz Lightyear, and lands with style on the wooden floor, performing a forward roll before sprinting towards the fireplace.
Aware that he still needs to climb to the roof before Santa arrives, Tickles hears another set of footsteps, he comes to a slamming stop and freezes. He looks back and it is those of Tiger, the family dog. With a grin ear to ear, his tongue flapping in the wind, and droll spraying everywhere, Tiger is at a full sprint towards Tickles.
Without panicking, Tickles makes a split-second decision, and falls back into a full sprint toward the fireplace asking himself, “How did he not see Tiger?” Tickles was so focused and concerned about getting out of the house and back to the North Pole. He failed to recognize the danger and threat of moving around with Tiger in the living room.
Having witnessed Tiger's destructive tendencies with stuffed animals, Tickles is determined not to become part of Tiger’s stuffed animal collection. Reaching the fireplace, Tickles climbs the brick chimney in a hurry, while below, Tiger barks and scratches, causing a commotion. Barking loud enough to wake up the entire house.
Tickles reaches the roof and sees the stars shining, the chilly air takes his breath away as he gasps. He runs to the side of the roof where he finds a bag of glow-in-the-dark candy canes. Tickles starts to lay out a Y-shape with the glow-in-the-dark candy canes across the roof so that Santa can pick him up. It was his only way of being extracted and that much closer to his favorite cup of hot chocolate with fairy dust, candy cane pieces, and peppermint bark on top.
Tickles gazes into the sky and spots a red light in the distance - uncertain if it's real or a mere illusion. The fluffy snowflakes swirling around makes it challenging to tell.
"Ho, Ho, Ho" bounces through the valley of homes; he recognizes that voice.
Soon, bells join in, softly singing in the wind—jingle bells. “It's Santa and his reindeer,” Tickles says to himself with joy, jumping up and down with glee.
Santa catches sight of the Y-shaped signal, shouting at Rudolf, to fly towards the glow-in-the-dark candy canes. Tickles watches Santa approach the house, hovering above the roof, he leaps out with his sack of toys and doesn’t say a word to Tickles.
Silently he descends the chimney, where he swiftly returns in a blink of an eye. The once-barking dog falls silent, and Santa completes his mission in a flash. Tickles blinked, and Santa was back, ready to roll. "Thanks," Tickles expresses. Santa replies, "No, thank you, for the help," Tickles jumped over the seat and joined the other elves in the back who had been on the same mission but in different locations.
Among his teammates, Tickles is no longer used, and his real name "Zipper," is used once again. A snap back into the reality. The mission ends, and it's time to rest, gearing up for the next year's venture.
Zipper turns away from the group laughing and chatting. He looks out of the sleigh, witnessing the merging of clouds and stars fly by; as the brisk air stings his nose.
Left with a lingering question only he can answer: will he return for another year, or is his time with Santa’s Recon Team of Elves over?
Unable to answer the question. All he can think of is his warm sweet favorite cup of hot chocolate with fairy dust, candy cane pieces, and peppermint bark on top made by Mama Claus - signifying, a job well done and a mission completed.
Giving Thanks
The warmth of the sun is a nice offset in temperature to the cool breeze brushing against my face. I open the door for the wife as she walks into the chiropractor’s office, we both took the morning to spend some intentional one-on-one time together. A day before Thanksgiving, and it is not every day we get this chance alone during the day. As we are both working hard to raise our children and live life. These weekly dates have become mandatory per her request, all I do is make sure I show up and be fully invested and present for her.
I enter behind her and follow in stride to the check-in desk as the door behind me closes. As we approach the check-in desk, we both recognize the front desk lady, as she is here every time, we come to get our bodies and joints adjusted. The front desk lady raises her head from scrolling her phone, throws her hands onto the keyboard, and with her happy tone, “Hey guys, how are you?” My wife replies as her blonde hair shines even brighter from the light bouncing off it, “We are good, I missed you last week,” she adds, while she steps to the side for this older gentleman who swipes his card on the scanner and beats Savanna and me in for check-in. He must have floated into the office; I didn’t hear the door open or the bell chime. I remember checking my rear and doing a quick three-hundred-and-sixty-degree scan of the area as we approached the door. So how he made his way into the office was strange to me as I reflect on it.
He says, with a gentle voice, “Excuse me,” smiles, turns, and walks away in a faded United States Marine’s Hat. The velcro strap on the back appears to spell out Wayne. In faded grey stitching that almost blends into the faded brown camouflage design of the hat. His pepper beard with gray hair flaring out from beneath the hat and sun-beat face made him look tired. A bit heavier up top than his lower half, with a button Hawaii-style shirt and a pair of blue jean cargo shorts that went to his knees, a pair of white long socks, and black slip-on Sketcher sneakers. I tune out the conversation that my wife and the front desk lady are having and sit down. I look over at the gentlemen and smile, saying, “Happy Thanksgiving Devil Dog!!!” Loud and proud with confidence. He looked at me smiled and said, “Same to you Devil Dog,” crossing his right foot over his left knee. The wife finally comes over and sits next to me, I lose track of what the man says next as my attention is broken by the beauty of my wife as she passes by. I reply stuck in my wife’s spell, not looking at the man, and burst out with, “I served for 8 years.”
He ignored my reply placing his arm on the armrest, and asked, “How old are you?” Without hesitation, I reply, “I am 35 years old.” He then goes,” I wasn’t a Marine, I served in the Army.” I sit more upright in the chair lock eyes with him, and reply, “Right on,” before I can finish my sentence, sadness comes from his mouth, “My son was,” and he looks down at his foot dangling in front of him. Shifting his eyes back into mine, then at the wife, he says, “He would be thirty-nine this year.” He looks away from us again, feeling the energy in the office morph into a grey day outside. Still caught off guard by the conversation, he turns back at us, his eyes heavy with tears in them, he builds the courage to speak again, “He died twenty years ago in Iraq,” still fighting the tears back from flushing out. I am not sure how to feel, but twenty years ago the war had just kicked off and the Marines were in full fighting force in Iraq. At first, not sure what to say or ask, but of course, I put on that coat of protection to stay strong, and I asked, “Where was he in Iraq?” The grey-breaded man gave me a surprised look, thrown off that I kept the conversation going.
A bit of life came back into him I saw, he started to think, his elbows raised up, and he said, “He worked in the Baghdad area and surrounding villages.” He uncrosses his legs, and keeps speaking, “He served with 1/7, he was infantry.” The conversation becomes discord as the doctor walks into the open lobby and hears us chatting. The doctor didn’t call him by his name, he just said with a cheerful grin and swinging arms, “You ready?” The old man pops up, walks over, shakes his hand, and says, “Good to see you, Doc.” The doctor dressed in all black, tall and lean, with fair skin and a brown combover meets his hand with his, and replies, “Same to you, my friend.” They both started to move towards the treatment room, where he continued to share the story, he was telling me.
I for sure was curious about this man’s story, yet I wasn’t meant to hear it from him. When I start to reflect on it, this time thirteen years ago, I was on a night patrol with my teammates, knocking on other human's doors and taking over their homes to fight from. Then locking them in a room or in the house with us. When they were not able to leave, we held them hostage to fight the Taliban and keep us safe. Again, thirteen years ago, I was in the same harm's way as his son was twenty years ago.
The only difference is I made it home and he did not. Did I get lucky? I will never know the answer. Very similar to the older gentleman who still questions why his son, twenty years ago was taken from him. It feels as if a rock falls into your stomach. Plus, I know firsthand how we played with the devil himself or evil while at war. What is it that makes me different than the older gentleman’s son? Who also put the same uniform on, went through the same phases of boot camp, earned the title Marine, and morphed into a war machine for his country.
Now, here I am thirteen years later, walking into the Joint Chiropractor's office, with four kids, a beautiful wife, and a positive role in society. Doing better than I was six years ago, and I certainly come very far from my time fighting the Taliban. Then of course the contrast of life slaps me in the face of this man who is old enough to be my dad, who lost his son twenty years ago. Yet, me returning from war and in front of him, makes the pain even more unbearable and it shows, that devastation weighs him down. The man finishes up with the doctor in happy spirits and his head up high, he comes by me, and I put my hand out and say, “Thank you, Sir.” He looks me in the eyes for a quick second, says, “Thank You”, and walks away.
The older man and I are no different, he misses his son every day, and I miss my father who died weeks before I headed off to fight the Taliban, thirteen years ago. The wife and I head to the back and the doctor fills us in with what happened. The man’s son fell off a twenty-plus foot tower while being shot at, his pants got stuck on some bob wire and he tussled to get loose but lost control, slipped, and fell to his death. That rock in my stomach I mentioned earlier, got even heavier, and my heart sank as well. What a way to go out and for his parents to still be wondering why today. And here he sees me at the age of thirty-five, four years younger than his son with my beautiful wife, striving, proud to be a Marine, who fought for his country. To stand strong as he would have wanted his son to do today, just as my dad would have.
I am four years younger than his son who made it back alive and living a life fuller than I would have ever imagined. These little moments offer so much fuel to keep living and gratitude towards my purpose of being here today. It gives me thanks for the lessons and pain I’ve experienced up to this point. It also gives me the lens to know that even when I might feel like I am losing. I am truly winning, and that is what matters. It is relearning how to view life and knowing it comes with a strategy and awareness to accept its gifts like I received today. I never believed in hope till today, learning that hope is a strategy that keeps me chasing my purpose in life.
Thank you, universe, for giving me something to share, a time to reflect and feel. For me, this moment will always be engrained into my heart and soul. I am thankful for these gifts, moments, lessons, and experiences. I am proud to be the man I am today, a true warrior, learning that warriors are not only here to fight external wars. They are here to teach us how to fight internal wars and never stop fighting by re-claiming our humanity and love for ourselves. I’ll keep living for this man whom I met inside the chiropractor’s office, I will keep living for my father whom I lost thirteen years ago, who I wish was here today. I will keep fighting the good fight for the brothers and sisters who are no longer to my left and right. I will never stop putting one foot in front of the other. Thirteen years later, full of emotions that I feel so much, no longer desensitized to the universe, no longer tough enough to hold back the tears as they roll down my cheeks while my fingers tap dancing across the keyboard finishing up my final words. So here is to those we miss and love and will never know why they were taken from us, but we must be proud to share their stories and keep their spirits alive.
Movie Clips In My Head
Half a marathon later
and here comes flashbacks of war.
They are short movie clips
projected on the inside
of my skull.
A movie-theater kind of
experience. With no one
in a seat but me.
Why does this happen?
Here’s an answer.
My words are not
to be of harm
as my rifle once was,
yet of love which
fills the gas tank
in my heart.
By painting a beautiful
picture with words offers space.
To accept, and be proud
of the man I
was then and now.
Full of energy to sit
and paint with words
a story like this one.
-
I find myself sitting
in moon dust dirt,
with a pair of brown
leather boots to protect
my feet, a rifle
to protect my brothers,
and a rucksack filled
with mission essential gear.
A vest that carries
rifle magazines, my radio,
my medical kit,
and two bulletproof plates
to stop the enemy’s
bullet from penetrating
my vital organs,
like the heart and lungs.
Night vision goggles
provide the ability
to see in the dark.
Attached to the helmet,
made to stop bullets
from hitting my brain.
Turning the night vision goggles
off to take in
the bright stars above.
Restores my eyes from
the bright green light
which filled my eyes
these last few
hours of our patrol.
Searching for Taliban fighters
that were shooting at us off and on
throughout the afternoon.
From the compound that me
and my teammates hold
security at now.
Under the lights of the stars and moon.
While two bomb doctors searched
for home-made bombs
those shit-heads left behind.
After a bomb exploded a few
hundred feet away scaring them away,
as a warning shot.
Correct, warning shot,
a tactic to force
the fighters to move out
of the building and
follow them to
another location.
With a drone in the sky undetected
providing a live-stream
of the battlefield below.
Sitting against my rucksack,
my eyes turned heavy
staring off into the dark sky.
The air warm with no breeze.
Leaves drips of sweat running
down my spine.
As my teammates
disappear into darkness.
-
As these words fill
the page, anger no longer bleeds
into movie clips as you read above.
When memories as such
flash into my head, the game of
hide and not tell is no longer helpful.
Creatively putting words onto
paper keeps my hands and mind
from destructive actions.
Accepting that writing stories about war
never goes away.
Writing teaches me to
be indestructible.
A creative action
bringing color to life.
Poetry Entry
“She Dances”
Kissing the drum softly
with every palm strike
he plays
and plays.
Boom, pop, boom, pop, pop—
Boom, pop, boom, pop, pop.
Images of flapping angel wings
Dance before his shut eyes. As she twirls through the galaxy.
Compelled and captivated.
By the medley and the grandeur of music.
Boom, pop, boom, pop, pop—
Boom, pop, boom, pop, pop.
She dances to the beat.
Gravity-heavy.
The cool, moist, earth beneath her
unshod feet.
Boom, pop, boom, pop, pop—
Boom, pop, boom, pop, pop.
As the sound waves
break. Ocean waves enter her
ears. Catalyzing sun rays.
Head thrown back and arms wide to the sky.
Boom, pop, boom, pop, pop—
Boom, pop, boom, pop, pop.
Her body vibrates,
restoring her soul’s
fuel tank:
ecstasy and jubilation.
Boom, pop, boom, pop, pop—
Boom, pop, boom, pop, pop.
Her spirit flies high
over-watching and dancing.
Excitement clashes and rages
inward, a riptide of peace.
Boom, pop, boom, pop, pop—
Boom, pop, boom, pop, pop.
She jolts with electricity.
To every
kiss of the
drum beat.
Boom, pop, boom, pop, pop—
Boom, pop, boom, pop, pop.
With each stroke of her
heartbeat, air consumes her lungs.
His heart drums
with no end in sight.
Boom, pop, boom, pop, pop—
Boom, pop, boom, pop, pop.
Plagiarism in Coaching and Teaching: A Catalyst for Progression
Teaching is a unique field where it is not only encouraged but essential to borrow and build upon the ideas of others for its progression. This phenomenon is observed worldwide and sheds light on the strength and conditioning industry. With access to various coaches worldwide through social media, there are numerous ways to learn how to squat, rotate or not to rotate, and more.
Practitioners in this field often incorporate techniques they have seen on social media into their training. While it may seem paradoxical, this aspect can be seen as a form of "plagiarism" in a constructive and ethical sense, most times with a tag of who they learned it from.
Education thrives on the collective knowledge and experience of educators, scholars, and experts who have contributed to a vast pool of pedagogical techniques and content. The same happens with strength and conditioning, where new ways to apply methods and principles are discovered by building upon the collective knowledge and experience of experts in the field.
The celebration of this "plagiarism" in teaching arises from several factors. Firstly, education is inherently repetitive and cumulative; each generation of educators refines and evolves the methods and materials of their predecessors. Secondly, it recognizes that no single individual can possess the entire spectrum of knowledge and innovative teaching strategies. Thus, borrowing and adapting ideas from others enriches the teaching process.
Furthermore, teaching acknowledges the importance of adapting and contextualizing knowledge to suit the diverse needs of students. In this way, even when ideas are borrowed, they are transformed and personalized, making them unique to each coach/educator's style and their students' needs.
Teaching has a unique approach to the concept of plagiarism, driven by its focus on educating and empowering future generations, instead of merely serving individual interests. This approach highlights the collaborative nature of education and the belief that knowledge should be available and adaptable to all. In essence, it underscores the importance of making education accessible to everyone.
Close Reading
Sometimes, poetry's beauty lies in its layers and multiple interpretations of one's self-expression of their creative mind.
Grandeur of Life
Let's continue to learn and recognize the difference between losing our sanity and being obsessed with life.
The paradox that we live in the grandeur of life appears unreachable to the blinded eye.
However, it's our choice which route to walk carrying a heart of obsession or remain sightless losing our minds filled with emptiness.
Spoken Word
Life has a way of abruptly halting, revealing the turbulence that surrounds us. Being a magician, dreamer, feeler, and creator requires no specific qualifications or skills, but learning to channel our emotions is essential. I used to struggle with expressing myself and feeling empty inside.
During a certain chapter of my life, I was known as a destroyer of life, and in some foreign lands, the son of Satan. With no real creative qualities but to survive.
My eyes were often overwhelmed by my nervous system's overdrive, always trying to keep up. Since I started exploring my creativity, I've continue to learn about the cycle of life and death that sporadically appears in our lives. Trusting in that the sun always rises and sets, bringing a sense of continuity and comfort to our lives.
Looking back now, many years later, I realize that there were plenty of people who were willing to help make my hands destructive, but very few who were willing to help me become a creator. It's a rare thing to take something from nothing and turn it into the most realistic experience life has to offer.
As I read my words aloud, I am reminded that I have survived for a purpose greater than myself. Being an artist has taught me that achieving the impossible is possible, but it requires practice, playfulness, and a deep connection to the depths of our heart and soul.
Magic Fingers
Writing is a magic trick.
To stay free, to relieve pressure.
As the heart wanders,
letters,
words,
sentences,
and paragraphs
transform into art.
Writing teaches me to be
indestructible.